


Attempts at Poetry

by Gemi



Series: Archivist Blackwood [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist!Martin, Awkwardness, M/M, Pining, Season 1, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:50:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20807297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemi/pseuds/Gemi
Summary: Martin manages to write ten lines about Jon’s hands with only one misspelling when the door is slammed open.





	Attempts at Poetry

The old typewriter truly was beautiful once he had wiped it clean from dust and grime. Shiny and black, with perfectly functional keys that were cold to the touch. A hipster’s dream, he had thought, and then felt a little guilty about it.  
  
Because, well, _he_ was a hipster, wasn’t he?   
  
Not quite, maybe. Martin didn’t wear thick rimmed glasses for fashionable reasons, he didn’t dress in scarfs and old sweaters. But he loved old things enough to want to use it. Enough to _dare_ to use it. Martin had to time it carefully though- he couldn’t smuggle it home after all, and Jon liked to pop in with little to no warning. Sasha and Tim at least _knocked._ It was rare that Jon ever did, and the few times he _had_, the door had opened so fast that it barely counted. And Jon had that weird ability of being able to yell without raising his voice.   
  
So Martin practiced writing on it when he knew Jon wasn’t in the building.  
  
It felt a bit silly, hiding it from a man who was, technically, Martin’s assistant. But Jonathan had made it very clear that he thought basically anything that wasn’t reading statements was, well.  
  
A waste of time.  
  
And Martin writing some poetry that wasn’t even _good_, on an old thing that was as difficult to use as it was oddly soothing? He could just imagine the fit Jon would throw, even if Martin tried to time it for lunch breaks whenever he could. But Jon had left fifteen minutes ago to hunt down some leads outside the building, and so Martin was practicing. He had just finished a statement, he could- it was _fine_, taking a small break.  
  
The mechanical sounds of keys being tapped fills up the space. Martin lets himself focus on it, delighting in it. Like this, in this cramped, dusty room, he can pretend he _is_ working hard. Maybe as a struggling writer, just doing what he could to earn the next paycheck. _Click, click_, and another line of poetry was done.   
  
Martin manages to write ten lines about Jon’s hands with only one misspelling when the door is slammed open.  
  
A squeak escapes, one he _desperately_ hopes no one but him heard, and Martin whirls around in his chair. But the momentum is too strong, continuing to spin until he has his back to the door. Flustered, he use his feet to make it turn back towards the one who interrupted him.  
  
Jon squints at him.  
  
Martin feels his entire face erupt into flames.  
  
“Hi Jon,” he says, and tries to inch away from the typewriter. The wheels of the chair squeak in protest, mortifyingly loud. “uh, back already?”  
  
Jonathan Sims squinting eyes sharpen into a glare. Martin tries his very best to keep the smile on his face.   
  
“Yes,” he says, and stalks forwards. For being someone who does in fact dress a bit like a hipster- not that Martin will _ever_ say that to Jon, of course- he can certainly look very much like someone possibly dangerous when he’s in a mood. “I _am_. What were you doing?”  
  
“Uhhhh, just, testing a theory.”  
  
“Work related?”  
  
“... yes?” Martin tries, and it’s easy to forget he’s taller than Jon. Especially when he’s sitting, and Jon looms without looming, glowering at him.   
  
And then Jon is reaching past Martin, towards the typewriter. Where Martin wrote about Jon’s hands in the sappiest kind of poetry he has ever written, with focus on that scar he has on his thumb because of course Martin couldn’t write something that could fit anyone, no, it had to be a specific kind of scar unique to Jon and now Jon will _read it_. In a moment of sudden, intense panic, Martin does the only thing he can think of.  
  
He grabs Jon’s arm.  
  
Well, he _tries_ to grab Jon’s arm. What he ends up doing is grabbing Jon’s hand. Which is so much worse, and the world seems to freeze. His hand is a bit cold, Martin realize through the fog of _terror_. Probably from having been outside- Jon never use gloves even though he should and also Martin is holding his hand and Jon is staring at their hands and then staring at _Martin _and opening his mouth and--  
  
“You can’t touch it, it’s an experiment,” Martin blurts out.  
  
Jon stares.  
  
Martin stares back.  
  
They are still holding hands.  
  
“I- alright,” Jon finally says, and Martin wonders if he’s blushing. His face is flushed, but was it already when he came in? Or did it happen now? “I brought- the files. From the case zero-one-two-one-one-zero-two.”  
  
At first Martin can’t remember which file that is- he doesn’t really say the number by number, he tries to narrow it down, like, say, zero-twelve-eleven-zero-two. But then he _does_ remember.  
  
“Oh! Oh, right, uh, the men at the hospital, with the boiling things and burns and stuff.”  
  
“Right,” Jon agrees, then clears his throat. He squeezes Martin’s hand.  
  
Martin lets it go like _he_ was the burnt one, and Jon steps back, not looking at Martin at all. That’s fine, though. Martin is busy staring at Jon’s shoes.  
  
“Here,” Jon says, and Martin glance up enough to see him put the folders on the desk, “It is mostly what I could find in old mythology and such. Ah, and I included Sasha’s findings as well.”  
  
“Thanks, Jon.”   
  
Should he still call him Jon? It feels weird, all of a sudden, because Martin held Jon’s hand when he didn’t plan to and now it’s all _awkward_. The silence is so thick he couldn’t cut it with a hot knife if he tried, he’s sure. Not even Jon seems like he wants to speak up.  
  
For far too long, Martin wonders if they will just stay here. Become a very weird, awkward statement for the next archivist. _Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood, overtaken by a strange silence that made Martin want to melt through the floorboards in hope of escape…  
  
_Then Jon clears his throat again.  
  
“I will go and make tea before I return to work,” he declares. It comes out stiff and as awkward as the silence itself, but Martin nods quickly anyway and almost bites his tongue in his eagerness to do so.  
  
“Lovely! I, uh, I’ll finish up here and come and take a cup, if that’s alright, no need to- to come in with it, I just- yeah. I’ll. See you there?”  
  
“I will make tea for all of us,” Jon agrees, and lingers for a moment longer. Then, finally, he turns around and leaves.  
  
Martin waits until the door is closed.   
  
Then, calmer and more methodical than he feels, he leans back in his chair and press the palm of his hands into his eyes and lets loose a massive sigh.   
  
“I’m an __idiot,” he groans.  
  
When Martin later gets up to get tea, he realize the tape recorder was still on. Because of course it was. So he turns it off, takes out the poem from the typewriter and hides it in the very back of one of the many drawers.   
  
Only then does he go to get his tea.  
  
He and Jon don’t make eye contact and Martin tells himself he’s relieved.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway apparently it IS possible to feel second-hand embarrassment while writing a fic. who knew??


End file.
